Snowy Days
by MissJewBooty
Summary: Tate Langdon is your average teenage boy, disregarding the fact that he suffers from voices in his head that are undoubtedly ruining his life. One night, he meets a pale girl named Violet who has sworn to protect him. She has a taste for blood and hands made to kill. However, that factor may have made Tate fall harder for her than he already was. Tate/Violet, Violate all the way.


**A/N: Hi, violate readers. I've been meaning to write a Tate/Violet story for months now, and this idea's been stuck in my head for awhile. To settle things straight:  
a.) I'm writing this based off of the Swedish film "Let Me In", so yes, it's a vampire fic.  
b.) Characters may or may not act totally like themselves.  
c.) Tate is absorbed in his thoughts a lot, and he hears voices. You should be able to decipher when he's thinking himself and when the voices are talking to him.**  
**d.) This chapter is kind of slow because it's explaining things. It'll pace up next chapter. I pwomise. (-:  
**  
**So uh, yeah. Enjoy.**

It doesn't snow in Los Angeles.

However, when winter arrives, the air becomes crisp and the temperature drops. The wind is a bitter cold and the city folk complain of not packing on enough layers of clothing to prevent frosted fingertips and visible breath. Their common California tans eventually fade away due to lack of sunlight. There isn't a flying bird in sight.

But, it doesn't snow in Los Angeles.

That's what Tate Langdon thought.

As he stepped outside and turned to lock the door, he tiredly craned his head down to look at the cold, crunchy material he felt under his ripped converse. Glancing at his front yard, Tate admired the scene. A thick layer of white powder covered the ground of his yard, his neighbors' yards, their houses, cars, the street… everything was covered in snow.

To him, the sight, smell, and feeling of the scene displayed was beautiful. The early morning sun glistened on the white blanket, blinding him if he stared directly at the new found material, and the icy feeling of the freezing weather on his skin burned. He enjoyed pain, after all.

A part of Tate wanted to stay home from school to sit on his front porch with a pack of smokes and observe the amazing view. He knew he couldn't, though. Having already ditched numerous days of this school year, another missed day means another session of emotional degrading and abuse from his alcoholic mother when the school informs her of her truant son.

Tate cringed at the thought of his mom sloppily flaring her arms at his head, calling him hurtful words and lowering his self esteem with every blow.

_If there's any self esteem left,_ Tate thought bitterly as he crunched his way through the snow to his car.

Driving to school was hard. It took so much power from Tate to simply turn the ignition and push on the gas pedal. Many days, he'd take detours so he didn't have to arrive early. Others, he'd settle his car all the way in the back of the school's parking lot and sit there until the bell rang. Even then, Tate would usually start up his engine and peel out of the lot to hide out somewhere for the day.

It wasn't that he was afraid of school, or that he didn't like it. He hated it, of course, but who didn't? He dreaded the claustrophobia he felt when he walked in the halls and the judgmental stares he received from his peers who avoided him at all costs.

Even so, the dread alone would be tolerable. He didn't mind the isolation he got from it; he hated everyone at that school. They were all fake, with their designer clothes and plastic smiles. But it sure would be nice to have a friend.

Back in his first two years of high school, he was at the top of Westfield's food chain. He made it onto the varsity track team in his freshman year and was praised in academics. To girls, he was the American dream. He stood at a tall 6'3, with a dimpled smile, dark eyes and blonde curls.

Looking back, Tate had it good until his sophomore year hit. Around that time, he started hearing whispering in his head, telling him to do things - terrible things. Mainly plots of murder he couldn't control. Who to kill, how to kill, why to kill. Some were self degrading, others boosted his confidence just so he could commit horrible crimes. They were always so tempting, but therapists told Tate the thoughts were evil and could get him locked up in a mental institution. So, after 4 different doctors and 8 different types of medications, Tate stuck to tuning the thoughts out as much as possible, with the help of heavy drug use.

However, in a city like LA, things spread like a wildfire, so when word got out that _the_ Tate Langdon was charged for attempted murder on a group of football players for tormenting his sister, no one treated him the same. People blamed it on the drugs he did, and others thought he was flat out insane. The incident's popularity in the news ruined him; it made everyone avoid catching his eye.

What he hated the most that came out of the situation was the nonstop torment he received. He was the punching bag of Westfield's football team. The school praised athletes, so teachers didn't do much about it in Tate's benefit.

He tried talking about his situation at school with his mom, but she blamed him for ruining his reputation as a star student and a picture perfect son. She thought he brought it upon himself, so she refused to let him change schools or get home schooled.

Now, being almost 18 and a senior in high school, Tate decided he would leave this shithole when he had the chance to and go live closer to the ocean. That was the only place he felt welcomed, anyways. Until then, he had to stick it out and take the abuse given to him. What else could he do about it?

Tate sighed as he revved his engine alive. Pulling out the emergency break, he took one more look down at the white ground again and drove off.

_I hope the snow stays,_ Tate thought to himself._ It could be a change for this December._

What Tate didn't realize was, the snow wasn't the only change that he would encounter.

-

"Hey, Langdon, I need your help with something."

Tate had survived through two classes without catching any of them. That was, until it hit lunchtime. Tate was opening his locker when he felt a muscular body, owned by Drew, the quarterback of the football team, lean on the locker next to him, accompanied by a group of meatheads.

_Just ignore them._ Tate kept his eyes fixated on his locker as he put books away.

"I was wondering if you knew where I could get some coke, and no, not the drink." The group laughed.

Tate rolled his eyes. _Pathetic._

"Can you hear me, Langdon?" Drew grabbed Tate's shoulder.

"I don't think someone like you can handle something like that," Tate muttered, still looking at his locker.

"Someone _like me_? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Drew whipped Tate around and pushed his shoulders into the locker.

_It means that if a steroid-head like you took them, you'd be at a weak point and I could bash your skull in. _

_You can do it right now, if you really wanted._

_You can paint the hallway with his blood, and use his friends' limbs to escort the screaming students out of the school._

_But I can't do anything like that that. _

_Not yet, you can't._

"Are you fucking deaf? Answer me!"

Tate stayed silent, absorbed in his own catastrophic thoughts.

"Drew, he isn't listening. You should really do something about it," a jock chimed.

Drew smacked Tate across the face. That woke up him up, for sure.

"Fuck off," Tate spit. Drew grinned. He pulled at Tate's shirt, ripping him away from the locker just so Drew should shove him straight back into it, hard.

"Shit," Tate breathed.

"You should stop cussing at me, boy," Drew warned.

"You should stop belittling me, Drew," Tate retorted.

Drew's face turned from confident to angry, and he threw a hand back. "You're nothing but a _freak_. A psychopathic, antisocial, _loner_ who's more than fucked up in the head."

_Way to point out the obvious, Sherlock._

Tate leaned in and smiled, "You don't think I already know that?" He glared at Drew and whispered, "didn't your mommy ever tell you not to fuck around with crazies?"

A muscular guy emerged from the posse and shoved Tate harder into the set of lockers. "Why don't you try pulling a stunt like you did to those football players again, huh?"

Another slammed the locker door onto the side of Tate's head. He could feel the side of his head ache. There must have been blood. "You can't do that, though. All of your therapists would probably have you locked away again!"

Tate shut his eyes, and reluctantly took his beating. He should've expected this. Being anywhere in the public eye around Westfield High screamed trouble for the blonde boy. What could he do about it? Absolutely nothing. Fighting back wouldn't do him any good, and it was impossible to avoid the bullying if he was at school. So, Tate just took it.

Like he always had to.

Tate pulled into his driveway to see that a familiar black Mercedes was parked in his spot.

_Can that old man learn to park somewhere else, for once?_ Tate thought as he stole his mom's parking space. He acts like he lives here.

The man who owned the car was Constance's new sex toy, Larry. A recently widowed millionaire in his early 50s, he was willing to give her anything she wanted, which included money, endless sex, money, shiny jewelry, and more money, all in exchange for some affection from the southern woman.

Not only did Tate resent him for practically murdering his wife and two daughters, he also hated Larry because he treated Tate and his sister like utter shit. Which, of course, his alcoholic mother did nothing about.

"Tate," Larry began as Tate walked into the front door. "I need you to watch your sister tonight. I'm taking your mom out."

"Yeah, no." Tate didn't even look at him as he walked by. "I have somewhere to be tonight." He was almost halfway up the stairs when Larry stopped him.

"I don't think so," Larry argued. "You're lucky you have the access of going places with that car."

Tate turned back. "I'm lucky? I paid for that car myself, without the help of you or my mom. I pay for my own gas and my own insurance."

Larry had the nerve to smirk. "How are you paying for your car, Tate? Still dealing drugs?"

Tate was down his stairs and holding Larry up against a wall within seconds. "Listen here, you desperate fuck. The only thing you're paying for is my mom's fill on whisky and sex. So you have no right to tell me what I can and can't do with that car. You don't live here, remember?"

"Not yet, I don't." Larry grinned.

_Why are you going to take this from a man who won't matter to your mom in 2 months?_

_You can just end the stress now._

_I can't get another charge on me. I'm almost 18, they'll send me away._

_Say it was for defense. He killed your brother, after all. The signs all point to him._

_I can't._

_Why can't you avenge your brother's death?_

_Are you that weak?_

_Do it while you have a hold on him._

The grip he had on Larry's shirt tightened.

_Don't puss out, Tate._

"Tate, Larry, what's going on?"

Tate snapped out of his corrupted thoughts and took an exhausted breath. He unwound his hands from Larry's collar, which sent the man to the ground.

"Constance, he's out of control! He was about to attack me, I swear!" Larry ran to Constance and hugged her, as a scared child would to a mother.

_The nerve of this guy._

Constance stormed up to Tate. "Your face is bloody and bruised. What the hell have you been doing?"

Tate moved away when she tried placing a polished hand on his face. "You wouldn't care." With that, he trudged up his stairs, not caring to give her anymore explanations. She didn't deserve them.

Sprawled out on his bed, Tate relied on the sound of Pearl Jam blasting through his stereo to rid him of the anxiety he felt from his shitty day. His stomach was tied in a stressful knot. His head pounded, as did his unsettling heart. Adrenaline pumped through his body in all the wrong ways. He didn't bother cleaning up his wounds.

_You're such a pushover. _

_You're pathetic. Nothing more than wallflower now._

_You let everyone walk all over you._

_All you can do is take the shit that people give you, and you go and hide in your room._

Tate shot out of bed and slammed his head into the wall nearest to him.

"Go away," Tate whispered through gritted teeth.

_Who are you telling to go away? You can't run, you stupidfuckingprick. _

_You can't tell yourself to go away._

_Psychoticderrangedmonster._

_This is what you are._

_Youcan'tbeanythingmorethanthemonsteryouare._

He slammed his head harder.

_Feed into your desire, Tate._

_Youfuckingmonster._

_Music isn't going to scare the monsters away, Tate._

_The devil is real. You've looked him in the eye. _

_Give into the darkness, you _are_ darkness._

Before Tate could process anything, he had thrown on his shoes and a jacket and was downstairs, out his door, and in his car, peeling out to go anywhere he could.

Anywhere where the voices couldn't follow him.

Tate drove far out of the city until the streets were dark and he had nearly ran out of gas. He stopped his car in the lot of an abandoned, run down apartment complex.

_Running from your problems, as usual?_

_Can you get anymore pathetic?_

He left his car and stumbled through the snow. The thoughts were still there, and by every gust of wind that hit his face, they became louder. Overpowering.

_What do you have to lose? Nothing. You have nothing. You are nothing. _

_Helterfuckingskelter._

_Kill everyone you like._

_Save them._

_Help them._

He fell to the snowy floor, and smacked his head repeatedly with shaky fists.

_Free them from the shit-_

_The piss-_

_The vomit, that this shithole placed them in._

He started pulling at his hair with every blow he gave himself. "GET OUT OF MY HEAD."

"You're going to bald yourself within minutes if you keep ripping at your scalp as rapidly as you are."

Tate stopped all at once, his fingers still wound around his curls. His eyes opened calmly, and widened. This voice was different from the rest. It was gentle, comforting, and… feminine?

The voice spoke again, every word burning at his heart like a sweet melody. "The side of your head has an open wound. Hitting it won't help the injury."

Tate slowly pulled his hands away from his head and looked at his palms. This voice couldn't be from his mind. No, it was too beautiful for his twisted head to conjure up. He turned around to see where the voice came from, an his jaw literally dropped.

Standing there was a petite girl, assumingly around his age. A mop of straight, blonde hair descended past her bare shoulders and framed her oval face. She had wide, almond shaped eyes and a button nose. Her skin was so absent from color that Tate could've lost her in the snow if it wasn't for a grey dress that hugged her small waist and flowed over her thighs.

Tate had gone from hysterias to a state of shock within seconds. She was absolutely flawless in the mind of a man with too many flaws to count.

The girl must've realized his change in mood because her pale lips moved gracefully, shaping every word perfectly as she spoke. "I apologize if I bothered you. You seemed distraught." Her eyes got wider, revealing hazel irises. "Am I bothering you?"

Tate's jaw shook, unable to speak.

The girl looked down, "I'm sorry. I'll let you be." She turned away.

"Wait," Tate finally spit out.

She wasn't bothering him. Little did she know, she had just saved him from a breakdown caused by his own mind. When did that usually happen? Never. He didn't want her to go. She couldn't leave him yet.

The girl spun back around and tilted her head to the side.

Tate took a deep breath, and prayed his voice wasn't shaking. "I'm sorry. You caught me at a bad time. You aren't bothering me. I really needed to be pulled out of the state I was in just now."

She smiled. "You shouldn't cry. Your eyes are breathtaking, and I couldn't imagine how much more beautiful they would be if they weren't so red-rimmed."

Tate's stomach tossed a hundred different ways. He knew he would never cry again if he could hear her voice everyday. He wouldn't have a reason to.

"You have dimples," he pointed out dumbly.

"So do you," she replied with a smirk.

Tate realized he had stopped crying completely, and now he was sitting in the cold snow with a wet face and a toothy grin. He was probably blushing, too.

"What's your name?" She asked.

"Tate."

"Just Tate?"

"Tate Langdon."

"Tate Langdon." The mysterious beauty practiced his name. He loved the way the syllables his name made her lips move. "Sounds southern."

"My mom is from the south," he informed her childishly.

"Oh, really?" The girl smiled. "Are you?"

"No," Tate responded. "I'm from here."

"A city boy," the girl commented, clasping her small hands together. Tate's heart pounded hard against his chest with her every word and movement.

"Are you from here?" Tate decided that small talk was the best way to keep this girl here until he could wrap his mind around things. Although she had seen him wrecking himself up just a few minutes earlier, he felt a comfort in her presence. Something told him that she didn't mind seeing him the way she did, and he held onto that feeling to cover up his embarrassment.

"I just moved here from Boston," the girl confirmed.

"Why?"

She shook her head and gave Tate a small smile. Her eyes left his face and ran up and down his body. "You're injured, Tate."

He looked down at himself, as well. "Nothing I can clean up," he reassured, trying to meet her eyes again.

She frowned, and within seconds, she was at his side. He must have been in a daze to not see her get over to him so quickly. _But how does a girl move that fast?_

Bending down, she studied the bruises and cuts. "Who did this to you?"

"No one," Tate said immediately. _She can't know. I just met her. I can't scare her off with the baggage I have._ "No one important, at least." Tate finished. Looking at her closer, he did realize that, in fact, she was the epitome of perfection. Not a blemish on her face or her body. She reminded him of a porcelain doll with how pale she was and how elegant her movements were.

He then realized she was only clad in a sleeveless dress. "Why aren't you wearing a jacket? It's snowing."

She grinned. "I love the cold."

Tate looked down at her feet. "You aren't wearing any shoes!"

She wiggled her toes through the snow. "So? Shoes aren't a necessity."

"In this weather, they are." Tate shrugged off his jacket and pulled his shoes and socks off of his feet. He threw his jacket over her shoulders and motioned for her to slip on his socks.

Her eyes widened. "It's fine.. really. I'm fine."

"No, put these socks on, at least."

The girl shook her head. "I don't need them."

"I insist." Tate laid the socks in her lap.

The girl's eyes widened, then softened. She slid on the socks that were way too big for her tiny feet and smiled warmly. "Thank you, Tate Langdon."

His heart just about melted. "Of course." He slipped back on his converse, sockless.

She held his jacket closer to her skin and shut her eyes. Crouching down to sit with him, she hummed a song he wasn't familiar with. "You smell delicious."

"Do I take that as a compliment?"

"Sure," the girl said. "Not a lot of people do."

Tate let out a chuckle. "Some people just don't like to shower, I guess."

She let out a small laugh, "True, but that's not what I was referring to."

"What did you mean, then?"

She shut her eyes again, and smiled. "Nothing. I enjoy you too much to act on it, anyways."

"I, what?"

"Hey, I have to go now," the girl rushed. "I can't be out too late."

"Do you need a ride anywhere?" Tate looked at her with hopeful eyes.

"No thanks," she said, hazel eyes burning into black ones.

"Oh, I see." Tate's heart fell into his stomach.

"Listen, Tate," she began. "Keep yourself safe, for me."

"What do you mean?"

"You have a pure heart."

Tate laughed bitterly. "You must be blind."

She shook her head. "I'm far from it. Here-" she shook off his jacket. "Take your clothes back so you aren't cold."

"Keep them," Tate said, pushing it back onto her shoulders.

"I'll take care of them," she said with a soft smile. "Thank you, Tate Langdon. For caring."

"Caring? Thank YOU for caring. More than most ever have," Tate declared.

She grabbed one of his hands. It was icy. "I'll see you soon, okay?"

"You will?"

"Yes," she answered. "I want to make sure you're safe."

"You don't even know where I live."

"I'll find you," she informed. "Trust me."

"Okay," Tate settled. "I'm counting on you."

She stood up, gave him one last soft smile, and started to walk away.

"Wait," he called out. She turned around. "What's your name?"

She grinned. "Violet. Just Violet." With that, she turned a corner.

He scrambled to his feet and went to follow her, but she was gone.

Tate held his pounding chest, and tried to calm his breathing.

Running a hand through his curls, he smiled.

"Violet, huh?"

It doesn't snow in Los Angeles, but when the impossible happens, Tate Langdon loves it.

**A/N: Reviews make me holla.**


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